


Paragons of Knightly Virtue

by Lisafer



Category: Protector of the Small - Tamora Pierce, The Song of the Lioness - Tamora Pierce, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: F/M, Forum: Goldenlake, M/M, May-December Romance, Peculiar Pairings Ficathon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 13:04:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisafer/pseuds/Lisafer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Affection blossoms where it's least expected in the world of knight training.  Warnings for attractions between an adult and teenager.</p><p>Written for Goldenlake's 2010 Peculiar Pairings Ficathon, and inspired by Sir Myles's line in The Protector of the Small: "And where did you learn this? From Lord Wyldon, that paragon of knightly virtue?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Discoveries

“I don’t know how long we will need a history teacher,” Duke Gareth said, his voice as thin and nasal as Myles remembered from the last time they spoke. Was it five years ago? Seven? “But until we find a replacement from the Mithran cloisters, I would like for you to take on the role.”

Myles tugged at his beard thoughtfully. There was something enticing about the notion of teaching young minds to become open to new ideas, new concepts beyond the art of killing one another with large sticks. “What would I be expected to cover?”

“You’ve been through it before - the history of warfare in the Eastern lands. Free,” the duke added, “of your philosophies.”

“I haven’t the foggiest notion of what you’re speaking,” Myles answered, feigning innocence.

Duke Gareth stood, and Myles followed suit. “I’m serious, Olau. I’ve heard your rants about the price of nobility and your tirades about the Code. I won’t have you poisoning these boys. Educated debates I can tolerate to a point but the last thing I want is the lads to start a revolution under my watch.” He led the way from the office out to the practice yards, where the lads were practicing with spears as an instructor barked orders. “They’re a good group,” he said, gesturing to the lot. “Young and untested, but with plenty of heart.”

Myles surveyed the lot of them. It took him back to his own days as a page twenty years before, and all the physical tests he had detested. This group seemed better than his. The larger boys didn’t seem to aggressively pick on the weaker ones. In fact, several of the older lads were helping the younger ones.

“Who’s that?” he asked the duke, nodding toward a thin but handsome boy among the older pages. He had a serious countenance, and was correcting the grip of one of the first years.

“Wyldon of Cavall. Derric’s son.” 

Myles whistled and shifted from one foot to the other. “That explains the solemnity.”

Duke Gareth nodded. “Many were surprised to see him here. But, well – it’s not his shame, after all.”

“True.” He squinted into the afternoon sunlight. 

“Sir Myles,” the duke began awkwardly, “there was some debate when I first suggested that you join the training program. You aren’t known as much for your abilities as a knight as you are for, well, other things.”

“And you worry that I’ll let these other things compromise my ability to teach?” He fought to keep any signs of annoyance from his voice.

“You must understand the concerns.”

“Are you worried about it, your Grace?”

“No.”

Myles sighed heavily and changed the subject. “We haven’t discussed my salary.”

“It isn’t much.”

“I had a feeling you would say that.” Heading back toward the duke’s office, they began to barter.

***

Even after a week of lessons, Wyldon wasn’t quite sure what to think of their new history instructor. The man seemed to have a clear notion of strategy, at least. The priest who’d last taught them didn’t seem to know the difference between a catapult and a trebuchet. Perhaps this scruffy bear of a man hadn’t much combat experience, but it was clear that he knew the history of warfare.

He was sorting through his notes, lagging behind the rest of his year mates, when Sir Myles singled him out. “Did the lesson live up to your expectations, Page Wyldon?”

Wyldon glanced up, surprised to find Sir Myles’s green-brown eyes locked on his. “Um, yes sir.”

“You were very quiet throughout.”

“I was taking notes, sir.” He held up several pages, as if to prove to the short man that he was diligent. He wasn’t used to people questioning him, instead having to prove himself first to win the attention of instructors.

The knight tugged at his beard, somehow looking more disheveled than Wyldon thought possible. “It hasn’t been easy for you, has it?” he finally asked.

Wyldon inhaled sharply and stood. He wasn’t broader than Sir Myles, but at least he was a good three inches taller. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.” He could feel the chill from his tone, and hoped it served as a warning to the older man.

“I was a page once, too,” Myles said softly. His eyes were kind. “It wasn’t all that long ago, in fact. I was knighted only thirteen years back.”

He looked older than thirty-one, Wyldon thought, studying him shrewdly. “Have you seen combat?”

“I have some battle experience. Border skirmishes, but nothing major.”

Wyldon nodded, pleased that Sir Myles didn’t seem to notice that the subject had been changed. “What have you been doing all these years since winning your shield, if not in combat?”

“There’s more to knightly duty than war.”

“Such as?” Wyldon got the feeling that he could get away with more directness with Sir Myles than with other instructors.

Myles grinned cheekily. “Drink, love, music – we’re dancers one minute, philosophers the next. The Code teaches us to be anything and everything that’s needed.”

“The Code teaches us to be temperate and fortitudinous. To serve with justice and prudence.”

“It asks a lot of us.” The plump knight shrugged. “But if you’re in a need of a friend someone to talk to….” 

“Thank you, sir,” he replied stiffly. “I’m fine.” Taking his books, he turned on his heel and left the room. He was already running the risk of being late for his next lesson.

***

Duke Gareth hadn’t dissembled. This was a good lot of boys. Each morning when they came into the classroom, bleary-eyed from the exhaustion that came from hard physical training, they did their best to be attentive. By the end of the lesson, though, they were leaning forward eagerly in their chairs, participating in discussion. 

Naxen’s own son was a first-year page who was somehow exactly like and nothing at all like his father. Gary, he was called, was able to play mediator between all the pages and let his own opinion be known without offending others. Myles liked that trait in the boy, and hoped he could help nurture this ability; it would be something useful to the crown someday. Naxens were always useful to the crown.

Other boys were interesting, too: dark, secretive Alexander of Tirragen had a perceptive nature and a way of surprising everyone with his strong opinions. That boy was the definition of a sneak attack, in Myles’s opinion. Aral of Midland Heights was an intellectual, and had his family not been so intent on sending him off to become a knight, he probably would’ve dedicated his life to scholarly pursuits. Myles found himself wishing that the liberal arts were as appreciated in Tortall as much as the martial arts. Ah, but only Carthak could boast such national pride in intellectual pursuits these days.

Wyldon of Cavall continued to intrigue Myles. He was a quiet student, taking notes diligently through class and rarely offering his own opinion unless called upon. Myles worried about his seclusion from other students; he appeared to get along with many of the other boys, but did not walk with others when he left the classroom. When the pages had their own free time – or what passed for free time in their rigorous schedules – he usually kept to himself. Myles found him in the library studying, or saw him in the yards perfecting his martial skills.

He was an isolated child – there was no denying it. And no matter what he told his teachers, the fact that he was picked on was not lost on Myles. 

Myles knew what it was like to be the oddball at court. He was short and studious – two traits that weren’t exactly thought highly of among knights. And as he had struggled through his own training, he had developed more and more traits that made others wary or frightened. He went from being ignored to being picked on, from being picked on to being bullied in a matter of months. Wyldon might have kept the other boys at bay, but there was no telling how long it would last.


	2. Truths

“He’s loaded.” Wyldon could hear the disgust in the other page’s voice. “He’s had more to drink than three other people combined.”

Wyldon had noticed as much, but wasn’t about to comment it to the other boys. He would wait, and watch, and reserve his judgment for a time when it was asked of him. And as was normal among his peers, his opinion wasn’t really asked. 

When the portly knight was ready to leave the great hall, he stumbled a bit. Wyldon was there to help, stooping a bit to support Sir Myles as he led him back to his rooms. He was given a shiny copper coin for his troubles, and he pocketed it with a slight smile. “Thank you sir,” he said, bowing.

“None of that, Wyldon.” Myles gestured for him to come in. “Do you play chess?”

“A bit, sir.”

“Would you care for a game?” 

“I-I suppose that would be nice.” He sat down awkwardly next to the small chess table, wishing he’d had an essay or math problems to work on.

“How is your family?” Myles said, after their opening moves were made.

“Fine, last I heard.” It wasn’t a lie, Wyldon told himself. His father’s health was poor, but it had been for as long as he could remember. And Elasabenne was fretting over being sent to a convent school the following spring, but wasn’t that to be expected from a girl who loved her brothers?

“I knew your mother,” Myles said, tugging at his shaggy beard. “I think she would be proud of your progress as a scholar.”

His whole body stiffened at the remark; Sir Myles had said it with a calculated casualness, but Wyldon knew better than that. The older man was fishing for something.

“She hasn’t shown any interest in us, sir. I doubt she feels anything akin to pride. How well did you know her, sir?” he asked, curiosity getting the better of him. He hoped his voice sounded frosty and disinterested; he knew little about his mother, other than what his father’s family said. And what other pages insinuated.

Hazel eyes studied him carefully. “Not as well as you suspect.”

“How do you know what I suspect?” His control over his emotions snapped for just an instant. He closed his eyes, reining in his temper. He opened his mouth to issue an apology, but stopped short. He wasn’t sorry. He didn’t care if it was rude – it was worse to assume you knew someone else’s thoughts, wasn’t it?

“No woman has been enough to lure me away from books or drinks, Wyldon,” Myles said softly, moving another pawn. “I didn’t know her well enough to have a dalliance with her.”

Wyldon nodded curtly, lashing out with his bishop instead.

“May I ask you something personal?” Myles continued. 

“Forgive my pertness, but I get the impression you’ll ask it even if I say no.” 

Myles chuckled. “Maybe in some cases, but this is a very private family subject.”

Even though he hated shrugs – they were so indecisive – Wyldon couldn’t help but respond with a twitch of his own shoulders. “Ask.”

“Which answer would you have preferred – knowing that your mother had an affair with a random knight at court, or that she was true to your father until she ran off with another man?”

“Affairs,” he answered gruffly. 

“Why?” The question hung in the air between them, and Myles’s very direct gaze made Wyldon feel like squirming.

“She ran off with a commoner,” he said finally, turning a recently-captured rook between his fingers. “It would be easier to think that my mother just – just –”

“Likes sex?” 

Wyldon flushed. “Yes, I suppose.”

“So your mother having loose morals is better than the notion that she might’ve fallen in love with a commoner?” Myles sighed heavily. “I’m told that she fell in love.”

“She chose some poacher over her husband and children,” Wyldon replied venomously. “She didn’t even dissolve the marriage in a temple of the Goddess, she just ran.”

“What would’ve happened to her if your father had known what was going on in her mind?” 

He pondered this question, thinking of his father’s temper. “I don’t know.”

“Did she have reason to fear him?”

He shrugged again and hated himself for it. Lord Derric of Cavall was an intimidating man, but he’d never raised a hand to his children. Probably because they were so frightened that they behaved.

“Do you know much about how marriages are ended among nobility?” Myles asked.

Wyldon shook his head.

“They usually aren’t. While women have the right to take their issues into the court of the Goddess, very few attempt it. It’s frowned upon, and in many cases they’re unclaimed, either by their husband’s families or their own. It’s very difficult for them – and they almost always lose rights to raise their children.”

“Why?”

“Because our system of life is designed to leave men in power, for better or worse. And any woman who chooses to leave her husband is treated like a fool. If her husband abused her, it’s assumed that she did something to warrant punishment.”

“Any man who abuses a woman is a coward who deserves being thrashed,” Wyldon growled.

“I would agree with you.”

“Do you think my father was in the wrong? That he drove my mother away?”

“I didn’t know him well, Wyldon. Anything is possible.” He moved his queen swiftly. “And I believe that’s checkmate.”

“That was quicker than I thought it would take.” He stood and bowed politely. Sir Myles played far better than someone who was supposed to be drunk. His reasoning and conversation, as well, made Wyldon wonder if the man really had consumed as much wine as they all thought he had.

***

Myles was pleased that Wyldon did not avoid him after such prying; contrarily, the lad seemed more open to him than he had been before. Rainy days were often spent playing chess and discussing different periods of history. On sunny days there was no keeping the lad indoors. He liked to work on his archery (his weakest martial skill, he insisted) or spend his free time riding. Horses were Wyldon’s passion, and sometimes Myles felt out of sorts, knowing that he did not share his favorite student’s interests.

But one thing he offered that no other adult did – perhaps no other page or squire, at that – was conversation. They liked to discuss everything from the Code of Chivalry to political alliances over their evening chess matches. Agreement wasn’t the goal of these discussions, either. Myles knew that Wyldon had strong feelings about the Code, and politics in general. But the lad was smart enough to know that changing another man’s opinion was rare, and could be done only through reason and persuasive discourse, not emotional pleas or accusations.

“The Code asks that men set aside their needs – companionship, reassurance – and be a solitary figure of strength and justice. It’s just not natural!” Myles insisted one afternoon after lessons.

Wyldon flushed uncharacteristically. “We train and study so we will be prepared for this life – we’re not children thrown to the wolves.”

“All men are like children thrown to the wolves,” Myles scoffed. “Safety in numbers is the only thing we can rely upon.”

“Companionship and reassurance can come from our marital lives rather than our martial ones,” the boy pointed out. 

“And for those of us who do not marry?”

“Why aren’t _you_ married, sir?” Wyldon asked hesitantly. His voice was guarded.

“I’m thinking you’ve already heard rumors as to why,” Myles answered with a frown.

Wyldon nodded. “Some of the other pages, well…”

“They say that I prefer the company of men over women, don’t they?”

“Yes.”

“And what did you think upon hearing that? Were you angered on my behalf, or did you wish it wasn’t true?” He studied the boy carefully, looking for any kind of reaction to his words.

“I didn’t think anything,” Wyldon replied evenly, “except that I would ask you if it were true.” His expression was as emotionless as his voice.

“It’s generally true,” Myles said, finally. “I told you before that I haven’t met a woman who could lure me away from my books or my drink.”

Wyldon narrowed his eyes. “But you have met plenty of men who could?”

“Plenty is giving me far too much credit.”

“So.” Wyldon let the syllable drawl uncharacteristically. He hesitated slightly before continuing. “If I were to ask you how one gets out of an arranged marriage, you might know?” 

“Aren’t you a little young for that?”

“Nothing’s set in stone, but my father’s already indicated that a marriage with Genlith would be preferable.” The corner of Wyldon’s wide mouth jerked into a grimace. “He’s been saying it for years.”

“And you don’t want to marry the young woman? Eventually?”

Wyldon shrugged. “I don’t know her. But she’s to come to court for Midwinter. She’s a year older than me,” he explained. 

Fifteen was considered the ideal age for a girl to be introduced to court these days, but Myles thought it was still too young to be playing adult games of politics and romance. “Maybe you’ll become attached over time.”

“You might have the right of things,” Wyldon said at last, with a sigh. “Men are easier to understand than women.”

***

“I try to have a chat with all my pages around this time of year,” Gareth said, motioning for Wyldon to sit down. “You’re bound to enter squirehood soon, and I’m sure you have plenty of questions and concerns, as well as expectations.”

“Yes, your Grace,” Wyldon answered, almost as a default rather than an acknowledgement of actual comprehension. He sat down in the hard, wooden chair.

“Have you given thought to what kind of knight-master you would like?” Gareth offered a thin smile. “You’re among the best students I’ve ever had, Wyldon. I would think that you had high expectations.”

Wyldon flushed. “Sir, to be perfectly honest, I have few expectations.”

“Wishes, then?”

“If I could be squire to any knight in the realm, I would wish to be _yours_ , your Grace.” He didn’t mean to sound pert.

“If I were an active knight, Page Wyldon, I think I would very much like taking you on as a squire. You’ve got more potential than I think you realize. I’m used to seeing determined young men, but it’s seldom that I get someone like you, who exhibits patience in instructing others while perfecting your own martial art.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I have had several inquiries from knights; I was rather hoping that Lord Emry would take on a squire, but he’s taken himself out of active duty in recent years.”

Lord Emry of Haryse was easily the best general in Tortallan history, and a war hero. Wyldon had read a number of essays about his strategic genius. The fact that Duke Gareth would imply that he felt Wyldon an appropriate squire was a greater compliment than he’d ever received in his life.

“I was speaking to Sir Myles the other night – we play chess often in the evenings, if I’m caught up in my studies – and he thought Imrah of Legann would be an ideal match for me, if he’s interested in taking on a squire and hasn’t chosen someone else yet.”

The duke studied him intently before speaking. “I think Sir Myles would be correct. Lord Imrah, in fact, was one of the knights who asked for suggestions as to who might be a good match for him. He excels in tactics, as you do. He’s also an exceptional tilter. I would say that he’s easily the best horseman I’ve ever seen.”

“How will this be done, then?”

“Next month, assuming I see no reasons to hold you back, you will be elevated to squire. At that time, any knight is free to approach you. I can steer them, but I usually do not seek anyone out or make too strong a suggestion.” The Duke drummed his fingers against the desk, and seemed to be searching for the right words. “Given your apparent closeness to Sir Myles, may I ask why you didn’t prefer him? He’s not tied to teaching, after all, and could be an effective knight-master.”

Wyldon snorted. “Sir Myles is someone I consider a very good mentor and even a friend. But he’s not exactly reverent toward the Code, nor is he much of a combat knight. I’d like experience, your Grace, and I don’t think Myles is the one to give it to me.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Duke Gareth’s mouth. He seemed pleased with the response he was given. “No, I don’t suppose he is.”


	3. Revelations

At Midwinter, after he was made a squire to Sir Imrah of Legann – an enviable knight-master to have, Duke Gareth had informed him – he saw Vivenne of Genlith at one of the many holiday parties.

His first impression was that she liked to dance, and Wyldon wasn’t much of a dancer. She was pretty enough, though, with her caramel-brown curls and grey eyes. She was quick to smile at all her partners, and didn’t appear to be on the lookout for him. Maybe, he thought with a snort, House Genlith wasn’t as eager to make a match with Cavall as Lord Derric hoped. Or perhaps she didn’t care either way.

Wyldon scanned the room for other familiar faces; the other squires were also doing their ballroom duty, carrying trays full of wine glasses and pitchers. Sometimes one would be lured into a dance. Occasionally, even, by young Lady Vivenne. Sir Imrah was attended to by his wife; she was the kind of lady who made Wyldon wish he could have complete choice in picking out a wife some day. She was sensible and polite; she had humor in her eyes. Mostly, though, she seemed to complete Sir Imrah. They had been married several years back, but there was verve in their relationship that Wyldon couldn’t help but envy. Even when he wasn’t looking for romance he couldn’t help but wish for it the littlest bit when he watched them dance together.

“A copper for your thoughts?” Myles’s voice was dry and slightly slurred. He’d been drinking all evening, Wyldon had noticed.

“Just watching, and waiting for someone to want more wine.” He grinned down at the knight. “I assume you would be interested?” 

“Of course.” He took a glass eagerly. 

Myles wasn’t the only one interested in a drink, though. Lady Vivenne also joined them, taking a glass with a smile. “Thank you, Squire…?” She raised one eyebrow and smiled prettily.

“Wyldon. Of Cavall.” He bowed as best he was able while balancing the tray of drinks.

“I’m Vivenne of Genlith,” she said, curtseying prettily while still gazing up at him. She turned to Myles, who matched her in height. “You must be Myles of Olau. My father has told me all about your studies of the Barzun conquest and its implications on the Tortallan economy. I look forward to reading them, once I get a chance to explore the palace libraries.”

“Do you read quite a lot?”

She nodded. “Mainly philosophy, though I love history, too. Whenever I’m not riding, anyway. That’s my first love.”

Myles turned to him, eyebrows raised. “What do you say to that, squire? It sounds like Lady Vivenne is a girl after your own heart.”

She beamed at Wyldon again; it wasn’t the generic smile of most court ladies, he realized. This was a girl who smiled because she was happy. “Are you kindred in the ways of philosophy, history, or horses?”

“Horses,” Myles answered for him. “As one of his instructors, I can assure you that Wyldon has a strong grasp on philosophy, but his passion is with horsemanship.”

“Perhaps we will cross paths riding someday,” Vivenne said, curtseying again. “If your obligations as a squire don’t pull you away from court, that is. Hunting season will begin soon, and I look forward to seeing you among the other squires and knights.”

She vanished as quickly as she appeared, whisked into another dance with a newly-made knight. Wyldon turned to Myles. “Why would you encourage that?” he asked frostily.

Myles grinned. “Curiosity.”

“You’re just not right, sir.” 

“So I’ve been told.”

“What do you think of her?”

Myles shrugged and deposited an empty wine glass onto the tray before taking another. “She’s smart and pretty. It was a good first impression, but one cannot determine love based upon first impressions.”

Wyldon scowled. He wasn’t quite certain that love and marriage had anything to do with each other, if his own parents were any kind of example.

***

On the longest night of the year, gifts were traditionally exchanged. Myles was expecting a long evening alone with his books and his brandy – he had no relatives and few close friends in the capital – and was therefore surprised by the decisive knock on the door. He opened it to find Wyldon standing in the hall, his hands behind him as he gazed down at him.

“Shouldn’t you be with friends?” Myles asked by way of greeting.

“That was the idea in coming here,” Wyldon said. “Or is it strange to call a student a friend?”

“I’m honored to call anyone a friend,” he answered, beckoning for the lad to come into his quarters. “I figured you would be the kind of fellow who would spend time praying in the Mithran chapels, taking part in the religious ceremonies.”

“Last year I did,” Wyldon said with a wry smile. “But I think the sun will still rise in the morning, whether I go to a temple or not.”

Myles’s eyebrows shot upward. “You’re beginning to sound like a blasphemer. I think you spend too much time with me.”

“I brought this for you,” the lad said, pulling a package out from behind his back. 

Myles took the package; it was wrapped in simple brown paper. Upon unwrapping, he discovered a book of verse. It was one of his favorite poets, in fact, and the book was beautifully illuminated. “This is…incredible,” he said finally, unable to find words to properly convey his feelings. He hoped his tone would demonstrate his sense of awe. 

“It’s got the both the original Thak and the common translation,” the boy pointed out. “It’s the first version ever done in the common tongue.”

“This is too generous a gift,” he protested, trying to hand the book back to Wyldon. 

“It’s not. Consider it my appreciation for, well, for all the time you’ve spent simply being my friend.” He flipped to a particular poem. “You’ll like this one – I think it’s a thinly veiled attack on the Code.”

“Thank you,” Myles whispered. “I don’t think you know what this means to me. Let me repay you in kind.” He moved toward his own shelf of favorite books and pulled out a thin volume entitled _Agoge_. “It’s the history of a region now part of Carthak, where men were raised to be the most stoic of warriors – everything their noble class did was to ensure that their city had the best warriors in the Eastern Lands, to the point that their city had no walls, as their warriors were to be the walls themselves. This book tells of their education, the agoge, and how they ensured their success as fighters.”

The book also covered their pederasty, Myles knew, but Wyldon seemed like an open-minded enough fellow when it came to that sort of thing. If he could accept the idea of Myles sleeping with other men, he could certainly handle it in the abstract in order to learn an important piece of history.

“I look forward to reading it,” Wyldon said. “But do you think we’d be able to play chess tonight, instead of going off to read our books?”

“I can’t think of anything I’d rather do more,” Myles said with a grin, and he moved to set up the chess board.

***

Sir Imrah was the exact kind of knight-master Wyldon needed, he was pleased to discover. The burly man worked him like a dog, and was highly demanding. It wasn’t long before he pulled him from the capital; together they traveled Tortall, ridding villages of bandits, taking their turns on border patrol. But there was some free time; Wyldon had chances to explore towns he’d never even heard of, and several trips were made back to Cavall or Legann.

He liked Legann the best. There was something calming about standing over the harbor in the morning, after his run along the high wall. His daily training on all sorts of weapons with his knight-master made the days go by swiftly, as did the understated deportment lessons – trial-by-fire with the Lady of Legann, Imrah’s eagle-eyed mother who was quick to frown if Wyldon offered the table salt improperly.

It was good preparation for his trips home to Cavall, where there were continual activities with the Genlith relations. Lady Vivenne was almost always around, quick to smile and even quicker to request his presence, whether riding or dancing. She knew of his family’s intentions after all, it seemed: she asked question after question – what his plans were after obtaining knighthood, what his favorite breed of dog was, which animal he most preferred hunting. It was strange that she wasn’t at all annoying; she did not press too hard, she merely offered enough companionship to be interesting and enjoyable. At one point he wondered what life with Vivenne might be like, were they to actually fall in love and marry one day. 

And then he thought inexplicably of Sir Myles.

They had not spoken or written to each other since Midwinter. But every evening, before sleeping, he would read another chapter of _Agoge_ and think of the friendly knight. The book gave details about the severe training of boys to be the best warriors in the world: unforgiving weight training, using full-sized weapons instead of light training arms, riding horses rather than ponies from an early age. But there were other bits that made Wyldon more curious than he cared to think about. Each young warrior, at the age comparable to squirehood in Tortall, would be paired off with a mentor. It was less formal and somehow more formal than the relationship between knight and squire. And it was more intimate. Far more intimate.

And Wyldon found himself wondering, when he shouldn’t, whether he could have that kind of relationship with someone like Myles, who seemed to look out for him and care about him in ways that Sir Imrah did not.


	4. Reunion

“It’s about being the best kind of person you can be,” Wyldon insisted, in their first friendly argument before the Midwinter holiday. It had been over a year since his last return to Corus, but it was easy to fall back into old habits with Myles. “The idea of knighthood isn’t to break you, but to give you parameters by which you live your life.”

“Such stoicism!” Myles scoffed. “And what, pray tell, are you to do when you fail?”

His question was greeted with silence. Wyldon frowned, his eyes resting on the fireplace as he slowly formulated an answer in his head. It was always like this, whenever he was momentarily stumped. Instead of rambling and saying whatever came to mind until he could piece it into a sound argument, he paused. It was a trait Myles admired – he wished more people would stop and think before they spoke, if they weren’t going to say anything meaningful. But with Wyldon, he knew that the answer would be a halting sentence. He was not the sort of young man who took to debate, because he didn’t like to expound upon his ideas.

“Knights have to face their failure with dignity and humility,” he finally said, his brown eyes darting up to Myles’s. “They can simply say ‘I failed’, and move on with their lives, striving to improve upon their mistakes.”

Myles chuckled. “Show me a knight who can own up to his mistakes, and I’ll be impressed!”

“Do you own up to your faults?”

“I have so many that it’s impossible not to.”

“Then you should be impressed.”

“I’m not a traditional knight by any means,” Myles pointed out. He couldn’t help but be pleased with the wry smile that tugged at Wyldon’s lips.

“No, I suppose you aren’t.” The young man studied Myles carefully. “Why did you become one, if you hate the Code so much?”

“I don’t hate it,” he insisted, pouring another glass of brandy. “I just think it asks far too much of our nobles and especially our knights. Eighteen is a young age to pledge yourself to any set of ideals, let alone one so unforgiving.”

“Eighteen isn’t that young,” Wyldon replied softly. He took the glass from Myles’s hand and set it on the table.”I’m almost seventeen, and I think I’m much more capable at making life decisions than I was two years ago.”

Myles swallowed thickly, feeling uneasy about the husky tone in the boy’s voice. “I acknowledge that there’s a large difference between the mind of a fourteen year old boy and a sixteen year old—”

“Nearly seventeen.” The lad inched closer. “Less than a week.”

Myles’s breath caught in his throat. He’d had too much brandy to handle a situation like this; his brain wasn’t working fast enough to come up with a certain way to keep the boy at bay. “There’s a vast difference, though, between a lad of seventeen and a man of thirty-four.”

Wyldon frowned slightly, “You taught us, while studying the Battle of Joyous Forest, that no gorge is so wide that a clever man can’t come up with a way to cross it.” He touched the older man’s fingers in a hesitant caress.

“The differences between two men are not the same as a fortress being assaulted.”

“Aren’t they?” The normally cool, even voice was ragged, and Myles was surprised to hear such emotion coming from the reserved boy. 

“Doesn’t your knight-master need you this evening?” It was an abrupt dismissal, and unlike anything that had ever transpired between them.

“He’s with his wife.” Wyldon’s dark eyes were fixed on Myles, unblinking. “They’ve been apart for a long time. It’s only natural that a man would first go to the person he misses the most.” The words hung between them like an invitation. 

Myles wasn’t even sure, after the fact, who had started it. He remembered Wyldon’s fingers – still on his – taking his hand firmly and tugging him closer. The kiss was awkward; it was clearly the boy’s first. But he had proved years before that he was a fast learner. Within moments the skill was perfected, his lips and tongue teasing as artfully as any courtesan. When he finally withdrew, his eyes were bright with a kind of excitement Myles had never seen before.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” the boy admitted breathlessly. 

“You shouldn’t have,” Myles rasped.

“You didn’t like it?”

“I liked it too much.” 

Wyldon’s mouth jerked into a grin, and Myles could feel an impending sense of doom. He needed more willpower to resist a persuasive young man – especially one who knew what kind of effect he had over him. And he thought that after three years he knew him well enough to rely on the fact that the lad would use this to his advantage. Wyldon never let an opportunity slip between his fingers. 

***

“I am eager for the pleasures of the flesh more than for salvation,” Wyldon quoted, under his breath, at a banquet two weeks later, as he filled Myles’s goblet. “My soul is dead, so I shall look after the flesh.”

Myles blinked, genuine confusion adding to the alcoholic stupor revealed in his eyes. “I thought you hated poetry,” he murmured. 

Wyldon shrugged. “I know that you like this one.” 

It was true; Myles had mentioned it during one of their early chess matches. But Wyldon had looked up the favored poet in the weeks since their first – and last – kisses. Although there were plenty of chances to run into each other, with Sir Imrah wanting to stay in the capital for a month or two and plenty of court functions that lent themselves to crossing paths, somehow he managed to just miss Sir Myles. He assumed it was intentional – he had seen the troubled expression that mingled with desire on the older man’s face. 

Even more than that, he understood it. Over the years he had learned several important things about Myles, and one was that he didn’t want to be seen as the wrong sort of knight. And a knight having some kind of attachment or affair with a squire was not the sort of thing people wanted to hear about. And maybe, a year or two prior, Wyldon himself wouldn’t have wanted to hear about it.

But in all his time away from court, he’d learned to miss Sir Myles. Missing led to longing. It was after weeks of lying in his bed, drifting off to sleep after imagining a hundred scenarios that might lead to kissing the shaggy knight that he’d worked up the courage to actually do it. And once it was done, he wanted more.

Sir Imrah, during his frank and embarrassing speech about sex and babies and responsibility, had not once touched the notion of what physical relations between two men would be like. Why would he? He didn’t really think about the fact that a man’s hazel eyes could bewitch another man, or that large hands and firm lips would make a young boy’s heart race.

“I travel the broad path, as is the way of youth,” Wyldon said, smiling slightly at Myles.

“I give myself to vice,” Myles continued the quotation, “unmindful of virtue.” 

“Will you need someone to escort you to your rooms?” Wyldon asked, fighting to keep his expression as innocent as possible.

Myles downed the rest of his wine in one gulp. “Yes, Squire Wyldon, I believe I will.”

It wasn’t an unusual thing to see Sir Myles escorted out of the banquet hall before the end of an evening, and if anyone noticed flushed expression on either knight or squire’s faces, they would likely blame the wine. But Wyldon’s hand was sweaty where it clutched Myles’s arm, and his heart thudded against his chest.

In the sanctuary of Myles’s room, Wyldon was surprised to not be the aggressor. Myles’s kisses were deep and fierce and everything that he had ever fantasized about. 

“You push and you push, and you don’t realize that my breaking could ruin you,” Myles murmured between kisses.

“It would take more than passion to ruin me,” Wyldon said, barely recognizing the heat in his own voice. In a matter of seconds tunics were removed, and it took only a moment longer to remove the rest of their clothes. Myles was barely able to muster his control – an effect of the alcohol, or desire? Wyldon wondered. 

He hadn’t thought about everything sex would involve, when he’d fallen asleep all those nights with fantasies filling his mind. Kissing, touching, exploring… there was so much more to it than that. He hadn’t prepared himself for awkwardness or discomfort, or the extreme pleasures that lovemaking would produce. Myles was as gentle as he could manage, taking the time to explain and tease and entice, and afterward, when they were lying together, limbs still entwined and flesh satisfied but sweaty, he was quiet. Sobering up, Wyldon realized with a frown. 

“Are you regretting it?” he asked, his voice low.

“No. Not as much as I should.” Myles laughed hoarsely. “I’m regretting more that I jumped straight to sex, instead of showing you all the pleasures of the flesh that usually lead up to such things.”

Wyldon smiled wryly. “It’s barely sundown. We have quite a while yet.” 

***

Two months later, when Sir Imrah was sent on border patrol, Wyldon was to go with him. As Myles knew he would be, eventually. 

“I’m not one for long goodbyes,” Wyldon said, not looking Myles in the face.

“I know.” Myles sighed heavily. “I have to remember to stop surrounding myself with such stoicism.”

“I’m hardly stoic,” Wyldon replied gruffly. 

“There was a scholar – Pirulen of haMinch – who founded a school of philosophy based on stoicism. Men should be free of passion, unmoved by joy or grief. They should submit without complaint to necessity.” Myles laughed bitterly. “Too many knights adhere to that philosophy.”

“I don’t.”

Myles rested his hands on the young man’s shoulders. “Don’t you? You can hardly look at me because you’re ashamed of your own emotions right now.”

This was clearly not what Wyldon wanted to hear. He jerked away forcefully, at once reminding Myles how much he had grown – in breadth as well as height – in the last three years. His body was a mass of kinetic energy, a tangle of potential damage waiting to be dealt. “I’m not ashamed,” he protested, looking down at Myles with hard eyes. “I just hate goodbyes.”

“You’ll be back in a month or two.”

“I hope. Lady Reyanna is expecting, though, and will likely be going back to Legann. So I’m not sure when I’ll be back in the capital again.”

“Certainly by December, though. For your Ordeal.” His birthday fell the day before the Midwinter holiday began.

Wyldon gulped. “Were you frightened, Myles? Going into your Ordeal?”

He nodded.”Anyone who says he wasn’t is lying to you.”

The younger man sighed heavily. “Duke Gareth says that knights have to learn to trust one another, and you say that men were not made to stand alone. But the very test we take to guarantee our knighthood is one that we isolate ourselves for.”

“You’ll be ready, when the time comes.” Myles was certain that if any boy was ever made to take on the Chamber of the Ordeal, Wyldon was the one. He couldn’t imagine what fears he might face – other than his father, there was little to nothing that made Wyldon lose his coolness. “I promise.

“But shouldn’t you be packing?” he said, changing the subject.

Wyldon shrugged his shoulders. “There isn’t a lot to pack up – I did most of it this morning.” 

It brought a degree of surprise to Myles when Wyldon stepped closer and wrapped his arms around him in a cautious embrace. “Things won’t change because I am gone, will they?” he asked, his voice low and nervous.

Myles wanted to laugh – all this awkwardness was because Wyldon was worried about him finding someone else to warm the bed while he was gone? “I would hardly think that a few months – even ten months – away from each other would alter that much.”


	5. Changes

It wasn’t ten months until they next saw each other. Only four months had passed when news came to Legann that Lord Derric’s always-present illness had taken a turn for the worse. Wyldon was en route to his father’s manor with Sir Imrah when a courier brought the news that he was now the Lord of Cavall, or at least, that he would be after his eighteenth birthday. They continued with their journey, and Imrah left him there to finish estate business. He would return to the capital when he could.

He rode into Corus, just three weeks later, with a heavy heart. He had never considered himself a frivolous person – in fact, most people said he was too serious for his own good – but now he found himself wishing for the comparatively carefree days of only two months before. Certainly the days following Midwinter.

Only one thing put a smile on his face these days, and that was the prospect of spending a week or more in the palace. Of seeing Sir Myles.

When he appeared at his knight-master’s side, at a banquet, he was disappointed to see a young page – a fumbling, awkward, skinny, tiny boy of a page – waiting on Sir Myles. Myles offered him a grin when he filled wine glasses, but when he lifted his eyes and realized through his drunken haze that Wyldon was present, his entire demeanor shifted. And his eyes, so calm and happy the instant before, took on a new expression that Wyldon could only call “smoldering”. 

Dinner was not as brief as he would’ve preferred, but when it was over – and when Imrah had told him that the evening was his own – he made his way to Myles’s room. 

The red-haired page was grinning, flipping a copper coin as he walked away from the knight’s rooms. They passed, and Wyldon had to suppress the urge to question the lad. Instead, he knocked on the heavy wooden door and prepared all the questions he had for Myles.

“I was hoping you’d find your way here,” Myles greeted when he opened the door. He wasn’t entirely gentle when he pulled Wyldon into the room. Any questions that were on the tip of the squire’s tongue were halted by an eager kiss. “You’ve grown. Shouldn’t you be done by now?”

“Father always reckoned I’d reach six feet,” Wyldon answered, a touch of melancholy in his voice. “Just like him.”

“So you’re the new Lord of Cavall.”

“No,” he shook his head. “Not until Midwinter. I’ll be honest – I thought I’d have time to enjoy being a knight before being a peer.”

Myles sighed heavily, and sat down on a loveseat, gesturing for Wyldon to join him. “How are your siblings?”

“Elasabenne is inconsolable. She was so young when mother… well, she’s unaccustomed to loss.”

“And your brothers?” 

“They bear it as they can.”

“And you?” Myles stroked Wyldon’s cheek gently.

“I can withstand this.” He met Myles’s level eyes and was grateful to not see sympathy. It was an expression he was tired of. “Who is the lad?”

Myles didn’t pretend not to understand. “A new page – from Trebond. He’s an odd boy, but good company.”

“Is that how you described me?” Wyldon looked away, afraid of what his face might give away.

“It’s not like that.”

He nodded once. “I believe you.” 

***

“He’s picked on,” Myles said quietly, when Wyldon spoke of Alan again a few months later. “He’s a nice boy who needs a friend – someone he can talk to who won’t judge him for not being able to hold his own yet.”

Wyldon snorted indelicately. “Any boy who’s training for knighthood should be able to.”

“You know as well as I do that boys can be cruel.” Myles frowned deeply.

“Boys test each other – that’s part of what knight training is about. Being a page is about not complaining when you’re unhappy, when you’re tested.”

“And what happens when one isn’t up to the test?” Myles snapped, losing control of his temper. “Doesn’t your precious Code dictate that we never ignore a cry for help? Must that cry be spoken, or are we to ignore the sufferings of people because they didn’t ask for assistance?”

“Is that why you befriended me? Because you thought I needed help and didn’t ask for it?” Wyldon glared at him angrily. Uncharacteristically. “Since when do you follow the code, anyway? You spend more time criticizing it than anyone I know!”

Myles pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes and counting to ten. “You’re jealous, and it’s ridiculous. I’m not going to continue this conversation unless you come outright with what you want to say, instead of dancing around the subject.” When he opened his eyes, he could see that Wyldon’s face was red; whether it was due to embarrassment or rage he couldn’t tell.

“I don’t want you to start a dalliance with him.”

Sighing heavily, he crossed his arms and glared up at Wyldon. “You think that I will?”

Wyldon shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another and then turned away altogether. “I don’t know what to think anymore. I hate that every time I see him, he’s near you.”

“He’s eleven - just a boy.” Myles could feel the argument that his lover appeared to be biting back: _I was only fourteen when our friendship began. And neither of us knew it would end up where it did_. “It’s not at all the same, Wyldon.”

“Maybe not on your side of things. But what about him?”

Myles poured himself a glass of brandy and threw it back, reveling in the burning sensation that made him forget – even for the briefest moment – that Wyldon was waiting impatiently for an answer. But the young man turned back to face him again, his serious, dark eyes insisting on an answer.

“You think you started this relationship,” he said finally, coolness creeping into his voice as he carefully enunciated each word, “but you’ve never had the upper hand. It continued because I allowed it. I encouraged your feelings and I invited you back over and over again. I did this because I cared for you – not because you seduced me.”

Wyldon dropped to the sofa; he braced his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice low and muffled. “I’m not someone who’s led by passion or irrational jealousy.”

Myles softened, watching his friend and lover. Wyldon was still young, he reminded himself. He recalled what it was like to be seventeen and in love, all the rages of hormones and insecurity battling with reason and common sense. He sat down next to Wyldon, resting his hand on the curve of the boy’s hunched back. “Wyldon, I’m rather attached to what we have, and I wouldn’t want to jeopardize it.”

Straightening, Wyldon was taller than Myles, even when sitting. He looked down at him, his expression soft. “I think..,” he began, then licked his lips. “I think I love you.”

“’When a young man, passion-laden, in a chamber meets another, then felicitous communion by Love's strain between the twain grows from forth their union,’” he quoted, translating the old Thak as he went.

“You and your dirty poetry.” Wyldon rolled his eyes, but smiled.

“That ‘dirty poetry’ taught me everything I know,” Myles replied with a chuckle. 

***

 

“I’m told that Squire Ralon left the palace today.” Sir Imrah’s voice was cool and even, hiding whatever feelings he had about the issue. Wyldon admired it greatly.

“I’ve heard. Seems he didn’t take kindly to having an eleven-year-old thrash him.”

Imrah frowned. “You weren’t friends with Malven, were you?”

Wyldon shook his head. He wasn’t friends with many of the squires, but he did recall teaching Ralon how to throw a more solid punch, when they were pages. “I’ve barely spoken to him since becoming a squire,” he told his knight-master. He knew what Myles thought of Ralon, and it wasn’t favorable. And not just because of the way he picked on Trebond and the other pages.

Whatever Imrah was looking for, he must have found it; he nodded gruffly and resumed cleaning his weapons. “How do you feel about your upcoming Ordeal?”

The Midwinter holiday began within a week, and Wyldon would turn eighteen at that time. Duke Gareth had encouraged him to take his Ordeal of Knighthood at the same time as the rest of his yearmates, even though his late birthday would’ve given enough reason to wait another year. But he wanted it done and over with; like most squires, he’d been to the Chamber of the Ordeal, and touched the cool metal door. The flood of images that had invaded his mind – people suffering and dying, his family falling apart, Cavall in ruins – were more frightening than he could’ve imagined without the Chamber’s assistance.

“I’m eager,” he said, finally. “Eager to finish my training. Eager to be put into service.”

Imrah smiled. “I’ve been looking for a knight to help instruct you. Did you have anyone in mind?”

For a brief moment, Wyldon considered Myles. But then he thought of Myles’s feelings about the Code of Chivalry. He wasn’t like the older knight, in that he could interpret and pick and choose what the Code meant – it was black and white to him, and he wanted to be instructed by someone who saw the world with fewer shades of grey. “I don’t, sir.”

“Even better. Duke Turamot has agreed, tentatively.”

“Duke Turamot of Wellam?” The middle-aged knight was well-known, having just ascended to a position in the courts. _He_ was the kind of thinker Wyldon wanted to be. “I’m flattered.”

“You should be,” Imrah said, clapping Wyldon on the knee before he stood. “I picked you because you had promise, Cavall. Turamot, Gareth – we all see promise in you. Gareth says you have the makings of a fine instructor, even, should you ever want to explore that path.”

Wyldon scowled; the idea was distasteful to him.

“At least take on a squire before you judge the notion of teaching,” Imrah advised.


	6. Knighthood

Wyldon was knighted on the third night of Midwinter; a ball was held that evening, and Queen Lianne awarded him the first dance. It was watching the two of them that made Myles realize just how much the boy had grown. He was a man, now, towering over the ladies of the court. He was as handsome as he’d ever been – perhaps even more so. His quietness seemed less about discomfort or uneasiness, and now he was a somber young man. 

After the seventh dance, and Myles’s third glass of wine, Wyldon was able to slip away for a bit. No one seemed to notice his departure, except perhaps Lady Vivenne, who had kept her eyes on him most of the evening.

“Where are we going?”

“Back to my rooms.”

Wyldon grinned. “You couldn’t wait?”

Myles shook his head, frowning slightly. “Nothing like that. Come along.” Together they walked silently down the corridor toward Myles’s quarters. Upon arrival, Myles halted at the door and looked up at Wyldon imploringly. “This will come as a shock to you, I’m sure. But I thought you needed this, today of all days.”

He opened the door and motion for Wyldon to step in ahead of him. Lamps were lit and a fire kept the room warm; both of these things took Wyldon by surprise, since Myles usually did not ask the palace servants to ready his rooms before retiring for the evening. The greater surprise, though, was the woman who sat before the fire, wringing her hands.

She jumped up at the site of them, holding shaking hands over her lined mouth. “W-Wyl?”

He stared, unmoving and unblinking. “Mother?” he croaked, his voice breaking. “What are you doing here?”

“Sir Myles found me… I had to come for your knighting.”

“You were at the ceremony?”

Elyssia of Cavall was a plain but pretty woman, sharing her son’s penetrating gaze. She nodded, wisps of dark blonde hair falling over her face. “In the back of the hall. I saw your brothers and sister, as well.”

Wyldon’s expression turned cold. “Did you see what you wanted in us?”

“I saw my beautiful children who have grown up so well.” Stepping forward, she took Wyldon’s hand in both of her own. “I’m so proud of you, dear.”

He swallowed, pulling his hand away from hers. “There’s nothing that can be said between us,” he said, his voice frosty. “You left us – you left me to care for them in your place. I was only eight; I didn’t know how to explain to Elasa that you would never be back to finish reading her the tale of the Princess and the Priest. I didn’t know how to tell Maysech and Rayen why father was so angry.” 

Color crept into her pale face. “I did so wrong by the four of you, and I’ve spent the last ten years regretting that decision.”

“You regret leaving?”

“I believed you would be better off with your father; you wouldn’t be punished with a life unsuited to you. You could’ve never been a knight if I’d taken you with me.”

“You would’ve left no matter what,” he acknowledged, his voice low and pained. Myles had spent the last four and a half years studying Wyldon; he could see anguish where the lad’s own mother could not.

She nodded. “I was beyond unhappy, Wyldon. Your father was…” she shook her head, apparently unable to criticize him before his own son. “Falling in love with someone else… it was a symptom of a greater illness in our lives. And I knew it was the only thing that would give me the strength to flee.”

The gazed at each other in silence, the room heavy with their shared misery. Myles, seeing Wyldon’s jaw unclench and his eyes soften, realized that the hardest part was over. “I’ll be in the ballroom,” he said softly. “Send one of the servants if I’m needed.”

***

“It’s splendid to see you in the Cavall colors instead of Legann,” Vivenne of Genlith said, sitting next to him at his Midwinter table. “Yellow doesn’t suit you at all.”

He couldn’t help but smile; even when Vivenne said trivial things, she didn’t do it with the same air as other ladies at court. She could speak of frivolities like fashion as though they were common sense. “You look lovely this evening,” he acknowledged, taking in her dove grey gown. It matched her eyes perfectly.

“I never got the chance to offer congratulations on your knighting; you left the ball so early.”

“The Ordeal left me very tired.” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth, either. Genlith was related on the Cavall side of the family, and he didn’t know what his second cousin would think of his mother in general, let alone in specifics. “I retired early, and have spent the last few days celebrating the Midwinter with family.” 

“Elasabenne is looking so regal these days, it’s hard to believe she’s only fourteen. One more year and you’ll be fending off suitors who would like her hand in marriage.” Laughing at the sight of his shocked face, she continued. “You are the leader of your clan now, though I’m sure Uncle Malendin would rather have control.”

Their shared relation was a harsh man who’d never liked the way Lord Derric had managed things. He was also the strongest proponent of a marriage between Cavall and Genlith. “I try not to listen to him,” Wyldon said dryly.

Vivenne blushed. “Not all of his ideas are horrible,” she said softly, not meeting Wyldon’s eyes. 

“Would you like to walk through the solarium?” he asked gently. “We…. Have a lot to discuss.”

She nodded and rose to her feet gracefully, and they made their way out of the Great Hall. Wyldon saw Myles across the room; his glass was being filled by the Trebond lad again, but his concerned expression was focused on Vivenne. 

“What did you have in mind, Sir Wyldon?” Vivenne asked, when they were finally out of ear-shot of other nobles.

“Great-Uncle Malendin has told me many times that he would like to see a union between Cavall and Genlith,” Wyldon began. “And now more so than ever, because it’s important for Cavall to have heirs.”

“You have two brothers.”

“Yes, but they’re no closer to siring children than I am, and you know uncle is a worrier.”

She nodded her agreement.

“And the more I think about it, the more it makes sense.” Stopping suddenly, he turned to look down at her heart-shaped face. “Are you being courted by anyone?”

“N-no,” she answered, her face growing pale. “Are you proposing marriage to me?” 

He smiled at the incredulity in her voice. “Not yet.”

“Yet?”

“Vivenne, you’re a good person, and I think you might even be someone I could grow to care for. I’m not ready for marriage, though, but I would hope that you might consider me, when I am. If you don’t fall in love with some other knight in the meanwhile.”

“This is the most unromantic proposition I’ve ever heard in my life,” she mused, smiling wryly at him. “Not that I’ve had many romantic propositions, mind you.”

“Will you consider it?” he asked. “I don’t mean to keep you from marrying anyone else if that’s your wish, but if anyone does ask you, please think of me. Think of our families. Weigh whether or not it’s a better option.”

She turned away from him, sighing. “Wyldon, I feel as though if we would have the most un-loving marriage ever.”

“No,” he said, his voice surprisingly firm. “The fact that we have the option, and would both have to go in willingly means that we won’t resent each other. And I promise you that – if this does happen – I will treat you with all the respect you deserve.” He tugged at her gently, turning her back toward him. “I know the Cavall clan doesn’t have the best reputation when it comes to love and respect and family, but I assure you that I will not be a repeat of my parents. Either of them.”

“I would try to love you, if we were to marry,” she said, her voice low and thick. “I don’t think it would be difficult.” 

 

***

“I have to tell you something,” Wyldon whispered that night, after hours of conversation and sex. 

“What is it?” Myles ran his hands over Wyldon’s chest and kissed his temple.

“I talked to Vivenne about marriage this evening.” The words came out in a rush, and he inhaled deeply, awaiting Myles’s answer. 

“And what did you two decide upon?” The older knight’s voice was calm, but his words were clipped.

“I didn’t propose, if that’s what you’re thinking. I just… asked her to consider it, someday.”

“You’ve asked her to wait for you? And didn’t tell her that you’re exploring love elsewhere?”

Wyldon shook his head, flustered. “I just asked her to keep it in mind, as she’s courted by others.”

“You’re fine with her exploring love with other men?”

“I’m doing it, after all.”

Myles laughed outright, laughed so hard that his eyes were wet with tears of mirth. “I’m sorry, Wyldon, but you keep proving to me over and over again that you are not your father’s child.”

Wyldon wasn’t as amused as his lover. “No, I’m not. That’s why I told her that she had a choice, and that I would show her the respect and friendship that my mother was never offered.”

“And what did she say to that?” Myles asked, his smile fading.

“She kissed me.”

Nothing was said for a long moment; Wyldon wondered if Myles was feeling that same surge of jealousy that he felt whenever Page Alan was nearby. Worse, he knew that Myles at least had more of a right to those emotions. “Are you angry?”

“How did it make you feel?” 

“Confused.”

“Confused because you liked it, or confused because it wasn’t what you expected?”

“I think it was a little of both,” Wyldon admitted.

“I see.”


	7. Dissolution

After Midwinter, most of the court believed that Wyldon was courting Lady Vivenne of Genlith. They rarely danced together, and never did anything that would automatically incite gossip, but it was there just the same. There was something in the way they spoke to one another – an ease that had not been present before their intimate discussion

And Myles was torn between understanding, on good days, and agonizing, on the bad ones.

He found himself in a new and interesting position, with Wyldon. Their days were far removed from one another, now that knightly obligations pulled them in different directions. There were no more essays to discuss, no differences of opinion on pedagogy. When they were together, they focused more on the physical relationship between them and the depth of feeling for one another. 

Wyldon took his conversations elsewhere, it seemed. He and Lady Vivenne, now fast friends, spent their time at dinners discussing horse breeding and training. From where he sat, Myles could only watch them and hear snippets of their conversation; they were too far apart for him to join in. He instead focused on the curve of Wyldon’s smile and his inviting body language, wondering if there was more to it than one shared kiss months before. 

So he waited and watched, looking for differences. Changes. Revelations.

In March, the Sweating Sickness reached the palace. It seemed that no one was safe – not even the healthiest people in the palace. Pages took sick; knights fell ill. Wyldon was delirious within the first two days of his fever.

And Vivenne of Genlith rarely left his side. 

The one time he visited the knight’s quarters – plain, simple rooms with little personality – she was wiping his brow with a damp cloth. “He’s been asking for you,” she said, the corners of her mouth tilting downward. “But he’s just fallen asleep, so I don’t want to wake him.”

“Aren’t you worried about falling ill yourself?” Myles asked. 

“I rarely get sick; I’m accustomed to playing nursemaid with my family.” She raised one eyebrow. “And you?” 

“My body is too full of wine to leave room for any illness.”

She laughed – a soft, pretty laugh – and dipped the cloth in Wyldon’s washbasin. 

“You seem… very much in place here,” Myles said haltingly. He didn’t want to accuse, but he still wanted to know.

She blushed. “Sir Myles, you know Wyldon well enough to know he’s far too proper for anything like that.” 

He knew quite the opposite, but Vivenne continued. “But I’ve been here since he fainted yesterday.”

“Wyldon fainted?” It seemed impossible.

“Nearly fell off his horse – but I suppose it wouldn’t be right to torment him later when he’s better.”

“You’re sure he’ll get better?” This sickness was known for taking people swiftly – the harder they fell, the sooner they perished. 

“I’m sure,” Vivenne whispered, her eyes fixed on Wyldon’s sleeping form. “As sure as he loves you, I guarantee that he will live.”

Myles blinked, but kept his voice level. “He’s told you this?”

“Not intentionally.” She shook her head emphatically, her face reddening. “His sleep has been fitful, and he’s said quite a lot I’m sure he never intended me to know.” 

There was something in her body language that made Myles feel guilty. “Do you love him?” he asked, his voice soft.

Squaring her shoulders, she looked up at him, her eyes fierce. “Do you?”

***

“Vivenne tells me you came to visit while I was ill,” Wyldon said. He put his condition in the past tense, even though he was still too weak to resume his duties. They were in his room, and he realized that Myles had rarely been here; they spent most of their time in the older knight’s quarters.

“I did. You were asleep.”

“And you didn’t think to come back later?”

Myles sighed. “You were delirious, Wyldon. Would it have done any good? Besides, I was needed elsewhere.”

Wyldon took a drink from his mug of steaming hot tea. “I’m told you helped save the prince,” he said, after swallowing. “Along with Alan of Trebond. You’re a hero.” He didn’t like the wistfulness in his voice.

“You’ll save a prince someday.” Myles’s troubled eyes crinkled with his smile. “I don’t think anyone can hold you back.”

He felt like there was nothing to propel him forward. His fever was over, but it had taken an incomparable toll on him. “Something is bothering you,” he said, changing the subject. 

Myles shifted from foot to foot, staring out the window even as he answered. “I have a lot on my mind.”

“Such as…?”

Myles shook his head. “I was given plenty to think about while half the palace was sick.”

“If you’re upset about Vivenne taking care of me—”

“I’m glad there was someone to look out for you,” he cut him off, turning back to face Wyldon. “Especially someone who cares as much as she does.”

Wyldon felt uncomfortable under his level gaze. “You know I have to marry eventually.”

“Do you? I was under the impression that you have siblings who can produce heirs to your fief.”

“It’s not that simple,” Wyldon insisted. “There are trade arrangements with Genlith to consider. Family expectations and obligations. My father’s dying wish!”

“And your siblings can’t marry someone from Genlith?”

“I can’t be certain that the relationship between families is effectively maintained unless I manage it myself.”

Myles frowned deeply and tugged at his shaggy beard. “You’re willing to forego your own happiness in order to keep everything in your own control?”

“It’s something I can endure,” Wyldon said, twisting the mug in his hands and staring into the swirling dark liquid. “And something I couldn’t ask of my siblings.”

“You’re so gods-cursed stoic! You think it’s heroic to manfully put your own desires aside, to accept a burden without flinching so you can be some kind of paragon of knightly virtue!”

“It’s not a burden,” Wyldon insisted. “I like her – I could like being married to her! What would you have me do?”

Myles shook his head angrily and headed for the door. “When I’m unhappy with a situation, I do my damnedest to _change_ it.” 

“You haven’t changed anything, Myles,” the younger man said, standing shakily. “You talk about how unforgiving the Code is, but you don’t try to change it – yet at the same time it’s too much for you to live by.”

“I live within the dictates of the Code even if I don’t embrace every aspect of it,” Myles replied, his voice low with fury. “But I won’t revel in the misery of duty and make my own life more pained in order to fulfill some fantasy of what a knight really is.” With that, he left the room.

***

 

“I’m told that they’ll be married this Midwinter,” Alan said, moving his – her? – chess piece across the board. “Jonathan says that they’re both from old families – Book of Gold, like Trebond or Olau. But since he’s already a member of the peerage, the wedding will be more elaborate than most. That’s why they’re marrying in Corus instead of Cavall.”

“I didn’t realize you cared so much for gossip.” He took a swig of wine, hoping that the drunker he got, the less the conversation would pain him. Three months had passed since the affair ended – without so much as a plea from Wyldon to save it – but it didn’t make it sting any less.

Alan flushed. “I’m not – I’ve just… I’ve never seen a wedding before.”

“It will be a private affair,” Myles assured her. She was obviously worried about someone suspecting that she wasn’t boyish enough, with her interest in such things. “Even if it _will_ take place here in the palace.”

“Jon says that it’s a marriage of love and duty – and that nobles don’t often get those. He seems to think a lot about marriage – but I suppose that’s normal if you’re the heir to the throne, yes?”

“Yes, I suppose it is.” He moved his bishop, taking a vulnerable knight. 

“Sir Myles, you seem… upset.”

“I’m just tired, lad,” he replied with a sigh. “I’m tired of what the Code asks of us – that we must bear our pains miserably and without complaint, without support from each other.”

“You’ve been drinking too much.”

“I haven’t drunk enough,” he replied bitterly. “Do me a favor, Alan.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Don’t be afraid to rely on someone other than yourself. Don’t get so caught up in duty that you forget that you have a duty to yourself, to those you love. Don’t forget to be who you are, rather than who people expect you to be.” 

Alan shrugged. “No one expects me to be anything, sir. But if that ever changes, I’ll remember your words.”


	8. Epilogue

“Sir Myles was a nice enough sort, but I didn’t really care for learning codes or taking dictation, or hearing him go on about the Code of Chivalry.”

Wyldon winced at his new squire’s rambling. “He taught you dictation?” Could the boy not take notes?

“Yes – he played lots of memory games in order to make sure I could remember giant chunks of speeches he made, and then I had to copy everything out word for word.” Owen’s grey eyes rolled. “It was grueling, sir.”

“You don’t even know the beginning of grueling, Squire Owen. I’m going to work you like a dog.” Wyldon tapped on his desk lightly, thinking. “You haven’t much martial training with Sir Myles, have you?”

“Well, he had me work with other knights and squires around the palace. Mainly sword and archery. But he’s not exactly known for being a fighter, is he?”

Wyldon coughed. “No, certainly not.”

“Mainly we talked – philosophy, and duty, and knightly virtues.”

“What did he say about knightly virtues?” he asked sharply; it reminded him of something said long ago.

Owen furrowed his eyebrows in concentration. “He said that there are four virtues of knighthood – justice, temperance, fortitude and prudence – and how they’re less important than other virtues, such as mercy, liberality, resolve, integrity or hope. But I don’t agree with him.”

“You don’t?” Wyldon’s eyebrows shot upward.

“No, sir. I think that the knightly virtues are the shell in which all other virtues are housed – you can’t have liberality without temperance to balance it, or mercy without justice. We should look at the world through the knightly virtues and use these ideas to manage our way on our own. Use these to hold us upright when we might otherwise fail.”

Wyldon studied the boy’s earnest face for a long moment. “I agree with you – but I also know that Sir Myles is right on some accounts. We throw young men out into the word by themselves; he is correct in his belief that men are made to bond, to trust in and rely on one another. So do not rely solely on these knightly virtues to hold you upright. There are friends, family, other knights who can help you when it becomes too much. And you have me to rely upon, like I should have more with my own knight-master.”

Owen blinked up at him, his countenance thoughtful. “When you say it, it makes sense.”

“Sir Myles offered quite a lot to me when I was your age,” Wyldon said, his face impassive. “Perhaps my greatest mistake in life was to realize it long after I was set in my ways as a knight.”


End file.
